


Matched Motions

by Fyeahvarric



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyeahvarric/pseuds/Fyeahvarric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic involving Leon, Claire, and a bit of awkward dancing. Written for a close friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matched Motions

**Author's Note:**

> There is a bit of smuttiness to be found in this brief little story, but it's nothing overly explicit in my opinion. This is also terribly fluffy, because sometimes that's just what one needs.
> 
> This ficlet was partly inspired while listening to the song Beggin' by Madcon.

There was something about dancing together that had never worked well for the two of them.

In life, they had always seemed to work well together, play off of each other almost effortlessly. It was as if there had existed a natural chemistry that allowed her to fit with him, to watch his back with the undead lashing out for them as easily as she’d always managed to do so outside of life or death situations. He understood that a tiny wrinkle between her brows and a constant need to do anything with her hands meant she was fuming over something. She knew when he watched TV with his chin braced against the backs of his folded hands that he had something on his mind he secretly needed to talk about. He knew the way she liked to be held when they slept just as she knew when to take touch his shoulder when nightmares woke him up at night.

There were so many aspects of the life they shared that melded so perfectly, so the fact that they couldn’t seem to move in synch to the same rhythm on the radio seemed to make no sense.

Leon had never been the best dancer. In fact, before Claire had come in to his life his only recollection of actually attempting to dance with a woman had been at his senior prom and that particular night had been more about fumbling hands in a cheap hotel room than effectively waltzing. The urge to try again, to dance with someone hadn’t returned until he and Claire had first begun living together, when the sight of her dancing as she pulled on her clothes one morning showed him that she had more of a knack for following a beat than he’d expected. She wasn’t an expert, but she was a good deal more adept at swaying to a tune than he’d ever been and his first attempt to join her had led to more laughter on her part than anything.

She’d tried to teach him how to move, how to follow her footwork whenever their jobs had allowed them to be home at the same time. Neither of them felt a need to go out dancing, finding that the idea of doing so at home in their worn jeans and old t-shirts held more appeal than attempting to make a scene at some noisy night club. Getting the hang out of flowing with her had never quite worked out for him no matter how much patience she showed after he made the occasion misstep on to her foot. Frustrating as it might’ve been to have something evade him when he was usually so damn good at everything else hadn’t wounded his ego much whenever Claire chuckled at his frustration, kissing away whatever ire her amusement may have caused until he couldn’t think of dancing anymore.

Over time, he came to enjoy the lessons simply for the way they always led to her fingers gripping his belt loops and his hands sneaking beneath her shirt to caress her back. Somehow, no matter what the song or where they were located, in the bedroom or living room, he always found his way on to his knees, with her thigh over his shoulder and his mouth, his fingers between her legs. When she sighed his name, when she slipped over him to take him inside her body, riding him slow and sweet and just the way he loved so damn much…

It was in those moments that Leon found another rhythm that they shared perfectly, that mattered so much more than fancy footwork. He loved the laughter brought about by her lessons, but he loved the sight of her face and the way her red hair spilled across the floorboards as he strummed his fingers against her just as much, matching the pace of his thrusts to the sounds of her breathing and the pitch of her cries.

“Leon, you’re kind of a lousy dancer,” she’d told him once, panting and sweat-soaked after she’d laid her head down against his chest in the aftermath.

The words that followed made the teasing comment worth hearing.

“But it’s one of the things I love about you.”

That had made him smile.

Dancing together would probably always be a bit awkward, a bit haphazard. But when loving her felt so damn right, nothing else, not even an inability to properly slow dance, really mattered.


End file.
